"Five..."
"Four..."
"Three..."
"Two..."
I push up on my hands and feet, bending slowly into downward dog on my yoga mat. My phone is propped against the coffee table. The throaty, strict woman on my app yells again.
"Don't pass up a chance to breathe! And hooooollllldddd. Very important!"
Oh, screw you, Grandma.
Soft, quiet music floats from the speakers, and a ridiculously bendy person demonstrates on the screen.
Okay, I'm breathing. I'm holding. I'm shaking worse than someone suffering from fever, and jeez, I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing.
Mom has gone out for an impromptu hangout with friends. If she was her right now, seeing me like this, she'll be wheezing her guts out.
"Ow," I wheeze to the empty room. "Please god, hurry up."
My calves are on fire. The messy top
